


no light no light (in your bright blue eyes)

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, doesn't have to be read as romance, implied panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: "They'll be alright."





	no light no light (in your bright blue eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> wow. this is really sad, this is me trying to...handle emotions, i guess. i feel just so fucking awful for everyone in the sport, but especially everyone that knew anthoine. pierre looked rough during part of the press conference in Monza, you could see him breathing rather hard after a question, just...awful. awful, awful, awful. someone please make sure all these young drivers are okay, please.  
all of my french is rudimentary google translate. please excuse me if you are a native speaker and it comes off as a mess.  
as usual, this is a work of fiction. please do not post elsewhere without my permission.  
title is from a florence + the machine song.

"And um, Jackie Stewart has said that last week's accident has served as a bit of a wake up call, and that drivers are taking too many liberties-"

Pierre's chest tightens like he's being constricted, every single muscle tensing up, and he just hopes it wasn't too obvious to the cameras pointed directly at him. _Smile and pretend everything is alright because in the end it will be,_ Charles had whispered to him after a particularly awful free practice that had Horner and Marko on his ass for days. Charles had said it so gently, softly tracing the peaks of Pierre's collarbones and soaking up the Frenchman's strong heartbeat through his fingerprints, and sometimes Pierre thinks back to all the easy nights he and the Monegasque shared early in the season, a softer world, and now all of those memories feel like a dream.

He's brutally snapped back to reality and the harsh lighting of the conference room by a wave of nausea that curls deep within the pit of his abdomen, and he feels a little bit like passing out right here at this table. He tries to steady his breathing as much as he can, knows the cameras can see his shoulders shake, focuses only on the memory of Charles' voice whispering soft French in his ear after the first time he ever had a panic attack- _en, deux, trois, quatre, c'est correct mon amour, maintenant la même chose, expirez, deux, trois, quatre_\- softening the pangs of dissonence that every cell of his being seemed to reverberate into his brain. It hurts, he hurts so much, and as the camera pans and zooms into Nico, it comes to a fever pitch.

He scrubs at his face, looks down at his lap and tries to hide the tears building in his eyes behind the stupid white Red Bull hat, desperately forces himself to regain composure before too many members of the press catch on and throw his own weakness back at him like a mirror. He can feel Charles giving him a concerned glance from the corner of his eye, can sense the Monegasque driver's body warmth through the thin royal blue shirt (that he hates, he wishes to claw the tangible garment of failure off his body, doesn't even feel like himself back in the Toro Rosso colors but like an imposter), and it soothes him marginally.

But Pierre's a professional, knows his limits better than anyone else, and while his breathing probably still looks frantic, when the camera pans out to show all five of them lined up, he has recovered a neutral expression. It's not a perfect job, but he considers its not too bad for the circumstances he's weathering.

Smile and pretend everything is alright, because it will be. Right now Pierre feels a little bit like nothing will ever be alright ever again, like his entire world is crashing around him, like he's twenty-three years old and living a dream that maybe he doesn't want to live, doesn't want to face the realities of dying so young, so unfulfilled, or maybe it's because he might not get to live that dream a short six months from now. Bittersweet. The rest of the press conference flies by in a blur, even as he answers the rest of the questions thrown his way with a fabricated laugh and vague answers, and he just wants the race weekend to be over so he can go back home and cry out the rest of his sorrows until he's empty.

Charles, the last constant in his life, doesn't seem to want to let that happen. The second that they're safe from the accusing lenses of the media, and before Pierre can make a beeline for the Toro Rosso hospitality, Charles pulls him into a hug, squeezes him as tight as he can, lets the drained Frenchman slump onto his shoulder.

"Pierre," he breathes, "_Ça va. Sois fort pour lui,_" he says, his own voice catching in his throat as Pierre grasps him tighter, finally letting the trapped sobs escape his body. "You're so strong, I'm so proud of you," he finishes in English, letting the worlds drawl off his tongue.

Charles bury's his own face in Pierre's hair, wishes he could take away the past month of his best friend's life, make him hurt less. But he can't, can't escape the awful road that fate has lead them both down. So he does the next best thing he can- holds Pierre, lets him feel every terrible thing he's repressed, far from the prying microphones, lets Pierre fall apart in his arms.

"_Ça ira_," he says into Pierre's flattened quaff, "_je promets que ça ira mieux._" He can't quite believe himself at the moment, but he knows it's true, holds Pierre close until he can start to believe it too.

They'll be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading.  
these things aren't easy to handle, even only as fans. if you ever need to talk, please reach out. my pms are always open.


End file.
